To Be Continued...

The steeple looks clean.  Too far to reach.  So high up in the heavens.
Bells ring with transcendence.  

A little hand passes by, gripped to her father’s pinky.  No sense in praying for her to remain little.  We all must die.  Perhaps she’ll become a nun.  Perhaps a whore.  Maybe you’ll cross paths again.

The uniform helps the cop pretend that he’s stronger than he is.  Unable to intimidate without the handcuffs.  Too weak to be a foot soldier.  Could never make the cut.  Eager to get his first kill.  

Fat bottomed girls strut their stuff.  Finally, Barbie is dead.  

The suit is either schizophrenic or has a telephone lodged in his ear.  Or both.

The lines sustain.
 
Panic sets in.  Paper without pen.  Mustn’t lose these sentences.  Mustn’t lose these sentences.  Their witness to all that is.

Footsteps echo deep beneath the skin.  Climbing the stairwell.  Past the trash in the corner.  Deeper into the smell of piss.  To the written word.

A writer is hungry for truth.  
A few good lines are enough to get by.